


Running on Empty

by ChocolatePecan



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ambulances, Bad Decisions, Blood, Chronic Illness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Noct gives terrible apologies, Noct makes up for everything in style, Parental emotional neglect, Prompto is too patient, Prompto needs to love himself as much as others love him, Worried Noctis Lucis Caelum, accidental injury, having friends is amazing, hindsight is always 20/20, letting a situation get out of control, medical diagnoses, might have to wait for the comfort, mild abandonment issues, paramedics, parental demands, plot support OCs, subway trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatePecan/pseuds/ChocolatePecan
Summary: Two days after their final high school exam, Prompto and Noct are due to meet in Insomnia's Royal Park. They'd planned to celebrate in all the ways Ignis would disapprove of: sleeping in late, grabbing something to eat at the burger truck in the park, then moving on to the arcade and playing games until they can't anymore.Prompto arrives early, not wanting to miss a thing.Noct doesn't arrive at all.(Based on artworks by Kaciart).





	1. Maybe This is How it Ends

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a mashup based on two short comic artworks by kaciart. [One of the works is currently publicly available](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/170054403318), the other is not.
> 
> Archive tags used apply to the entire fic (there shouldn't be any nasty surprises). I'll add additional tags as chapters come into being.
> 
> Please enjoy :)

Prompto’s subway train sways gently on the tracks as it rounds the corner. He’s taken the journey so many times that he knows to expect it. With his shoulder jammed against the vertical rail he leans with the turn, scrolling through his phone’s music collection for something that fits his mood.

It’s late, he’s hungry, and he’s been stood up.

He and Noct were meant to be celebrating, given that it was two days after their last ever high school exam. They’d been planning to meet, grab something to eat at the burger truck on the outskirts of the park, then move on to the arcade and play games until they were sick of it.

Prompto had arrived early, not wanting to hold up Crown Prince Noctis of Lucis or anything.

Five hours later, and Noct hadn’t arrived at all.

 

At first, Prompto had just waited. He knew how easily Noct could be caught up in official business. For an hour or so, waiting had meant sitting on the park bench and unwinding in the unseasonably warm sun. That had felt pretty good after the rush and stress of exams. There were plenty of dogs in the park to make a fuss of, and he’d made the slushie he bought last until there was just a centimetre of blue raspberry at the bottom of the cup, warm and too gross to drink.

He’d texted Noct: _Dude, are you still coming? Or do you need me to come meet you somewhere else? I can jump on the subway and come to your apartment instead?_

There’d been no reply.

During the second hour he’d explored the park. He’d taken some pictures in the flower garden, pleased to get a photo of a single blood-red rose at the end of its bloom. The petals were just starting to fall away from the yellow anthers at centre of the head. It was tempting to reach out and brush them with a fingertip, but that seemed like an invasion.

Walking between the trees of the arboretum made it easy to imagine he was no longer in the park. They scaled so high and absorbed so much sound and light, it was easy to imagine he’d left for a place on the other side of the wall. Above him the light filtered down between the leaves and branches as though through hundreds of interlocking hands.

The red deer, sheltering under the branches of a cedar tree, were another perfect photo opportunity. Even though the stags’ antlers were still growing in, their shoulders were broad and they stood proud, their eyes scanning the fence a few hundred metres away. Against their regalness Prompto felt small, and taking a photograph felt like snatching away a piece of something much bigger and grander than him.

His second text to Noct read: _Dude, I haven’t got the wrong day or anything, have I? I think cramming has fried my brain :o_

He still got no reply.

During the third hour, Prompto worried. One of the unusual things about having a very important and well-known friend was that if something had happened to him it’d be all over the news very quickly. For a while he’d flicked between news tabs on his phone, unable to keep his legs still and chewing his lower lip nervously. The collapse of a well-known entertainment show, new road designs, and a series of unsolved thefts were all big news, but the Crown Prince of Lucis wasn’t.

A new message had popped up from his mom that read: _Can you let me know when my package from the Dincht Corporation arrives? Should be here by the weekend. Xxx_

She’d be away on business until the middle of next week. The missive had been her first contact in four days, and even then she’d only asked him when his first exam was. At that point, his exams had been going on for two weeks.

Prompto shot her a quick message back: _Yeah, no problem. Exams went okay btw. Tired now though._

Then he’d texted Ignis, because if Ignis didn’t know where Noct was then nobody did.

_Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d seen Noct today? He was going to meet me but he hasn’t shown up yet. Figured you’d know if he’d forgotten his phone or something :/_

Two girls had caught his eye, and he’d watched them cross to the snack van, all tantalising shorts and knotted shirts. He couldn’t make eye contact with them, though; he needed a wingman for that.

When, thirty minutes later, Ignis hadn’t responded, Prompto went ahead and texted Gladio:

 _Hey, have you seen Noct? We were going to meet up today._ _Just checking you didn’t whack him too hard in training :p_

There was no response from Gladio, either.

Either they were all in the same meeting, or they were all ignoring him.

Or his phone wasn’t working properly. There was always that.  

By hour four he hadn’t even eaten. Noct could still have turned up, he’d thought, harried and annoyed by whatever had held him up so long. He’d probably still want to eat when he got there.

After deliberation, Prompto had returned to what he’d begun thinking of as _his_ bench with a bag of crisps from the snack van.  

He’d savoured them. They were a rare treat, because whenever he thought about eating crisps the desire to do so was quickly replaced by the memory of his euphoria at fitting into a pair of trousers the next size down. He didn’t want to know how he’d feel if that situation was switched and he had to get the next size up.

By the time he’d headed back to the subway station at the end of hour five, the sun had fallen low in the sky.

 

Even now, as he shifts backwards into a corner of the train carriage to make space for tired-looking day workers, he can’t help but worry he’s done something wrong.

What if Noct had only been interested in being his friend through high school? It’s not like he can think of himself as much of a catch. Noct is on target to graduate at the top of the class, while Prompto’s been told by his tutors that he’ll probably be squarely in the good-try-but-no-prizes end of the top quartile.

Study time with Noct had been fun and Prompto had learned a lot, though he’d probably got more out of it than his buddy had. The arcade was always fun, but maybe Noct is outgrowing it. Prompto loves sharing his photos with Noct, and showing him crazy online videos, but maybe he needs to pick up his bestie game. Maybe he’s not being supportive enough. He knows Noct is subject to strident expectations, even if he doesn’t explicitly complain.

Even if all Noct needs him for is the laughs, Prompto thinks, that’s okay. Lucian princes have so much more to worry about than days at the arcade. If he can just keep lifting Noct’s spirits a bit, keep putting a smile on that serious face, it’s all okay. That’s all that matters.

The subway train stops at another station. More people pack on. There are now so many people in the carriage that Prompto can’t use his phone without it being in somebody else’s way. Awkwardly, he stows it in his pocket.

He notices a tourist standing in front of him, wearing a long, wide rucksack. He looks like he could fit enough trekking equipment in it for a two-week hike. It’s blue and grey and takes up almost all of Prompto’s line of sight. He’s only a couple of stops from home though, so he’ll be out of the owner’s way soon.

He hopes Noct’s okay. It’s not like him to just not reply. Even if he had done something wrong, Noct’s not passive aggressive like that. Once, maybe, but not now. He’d call him out, just like he does if he doesn’t take his meds.

If something’s actually happened to his best buddy and he’s been lazing around in the park all day…

They are compulsive thoughts. They come, are interrupted, leave, and then come again. Music would help distract him, but the album he’s been listening to has finished and he forgot to programme his phone to repeat it. Instead, the accompaniment to his concern is the loud thrum of the subway train as it fires itself towards the next station.

When the train stops, even more people cram on. Prompto pushes himself up onto the padded lip in the standee area to make a little more room for the tired-looking throngs, and the guy with the rucksack immediately takes up the extra space. He reverses without looking behind him, and Prompto has to yank his face out of the way to keep it from being hit by the all-encompassing rucksack.

The tourist is practically between his knees now and Prompto can’t help but feel like he ought to ask the guy’s first name, since their positions are so intimate.

One more stop. Then he can have his personal space back.

The carriage doors close, and the train hums back to life. It’s so crowded that Prompto can’t even see the advertising posters on the station. He can only sense the onset of tunnel darkness outside the carriage.

The good news is that, propped up on the padded rest, he can get his phone out again. He quickly chooses something else to distract himself with. Maybe he should change train lines and go to Noct’s apartment? Either he’s there now, or he will be eventually. Is it too creepy to be sitting outside waiting for him when he gets home?

…Eh. Maybe. He can’t imagine the not-very-well-hidden Crownsguard being happy about that.

Prompto knows the train’s route back to his place very well. He knows that between the previous stop and his there’s a sharp bend on the track, and if the driver hits it too fast, it makes the train lean hard. He holds the grab handle above him in preparation, ready to lean back into the window with the train’s movement.

The tourist doesn’t know about the bend. He’s not even holding the grab rail, so when the driver hits the turn at speed he stumbles backwards. Flailing, he reaches for a handhold, for anything to save himself, but there’s nothing, and the weight of the backpack makes his movements cumbersome.

Prompto looks up as he senses fast movement in front of him – just in time to catch the full force of the over-filled rucksack to the face.

Stunned and with his whole body on full alert, he jabs his arms out to shove the offender away and protect himself from another whack. Yanking his earbuds out, he says,

“Dude!” His voice is loud on the crowded train. “Do something about your damn rucksack!”

The tourist turns to him, both hands raised in placation. As he does, the people standing behind him lurch away to avoid the swinging rucksack. “Sorry, sorry!” he says.

At first, adrenaline absorbs the pain. Prompto’s eyes are watering, and his shoulders tingle with agitation, but it takes for a woman standing next to the tourist to look horrified before he senses the liquid heat on his mouth and chin. He reaches for it, looking down at his shirt at the same time.

Both hands come away covered in blood. It’s all over his palms, between his fingers, tracking down the back of his hands. The front of his hoodie is spattered all over with it. Absently, he watches the carmine-coloured stain spread. One stream of blood is too fast to be absorbed. It collects in a crease, then dribbles off the hoodie onto his jeans.

That’s a lot of blood. Some prehistoric crisis alarm sets off deep inside him and he grasps his nose tightly, putting his head forward. Scrabbling for something to stem the flow and manage the mess, he pulls up the hem of his hoodie, t-shirt caught in a bundle beneath it.  

Then there are hands on his arm. The kindly woman edges him off the padded prop and coaxes him through the crowded train. A man quickly vacates a seat. Prompto feels light-headed, and his hands are shaking. Beneath him the seat cushion is warm, and he vaguely thinks, _I need to get off at the next stop._

 He’s sure he hears the woman giving the tourist a hard time, but that doesn’t seem important anymore. Given the fact that he’s standing next to him with his hand over his mouth, he must feel pretty bad already.

Somebody offers Prompto a bottle of water. As he takes it, he catches sight of his hands. It looks like he’s been butchering garulas all day.

Thanks,” he mumbles into his hoodie. And then, “Sorry _ugh_.” Even his voice is shaking.

“Where’s your stop?” somebody asks. Prompto thinks it’s a man.

“Next stop. Next one.” Hah, he sounds _so_ with it. If he was less focused on bleeding to death, he’d probably be bothered by how confused he sounds. Every time he talks, he can taste the copperiness of blood. It turns his stomach.

The train slows, and things start to feel a bit discombobulated. “I need to get off,” Prompto says, “I have to.” _Get home_ , though he’s not sure that part makes it out of his mouth.

Hands take him by both arms this time. The train drifts to a halt, and he’s escorted to the door and out onto the station platform. Other passengers seem to step around something as they get off the train. He glances over his shoulder, to see a trail of blood leading out of the open doors, the scarlet of it stark against the green and grey hexagonal tiles of the platform.

“Don’t let go of your nose,” an escort says, and Prompto can’t collect himself enough to reply.

A member of station staff approaches, looking alarmed, as Prompto’s escorts – three of them? – lead him to a bench and sit him down. Prompto resumes leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hoodie clenched over his nose. He’s starting to feel light-headed again. There’s blood in his mouth, and he really wants to spit it out.

Hell, his hoodie’s ruined already. He spits the blood into it.

“Stay here,” the station lady says. “We’re getting a first aider.” She sits beside him on the bench, which considering he’s making a bloody mess of everything he touches is beyond-the-call-of-duty considerate. She smiles encouragingly. “You should take a drink of water.”

Prompto had forgotten about the water. He has to take both hands off his face to open the bottle. Blood spatters all over his jeans, all over the tiles. It’s kind of ridiculous. He hadn’t thought the rucksack had hit him that hard. He wishes he had a straw for the bottle, too, because every time he puts his head back to take a sip of water he ends up swallowing more blood. It’s making him feel sick.

The tourist is still standing nearby with his backpack on. He must have been one of his escorts. He’s talking in a heavy accent to the station lady, telling her he doesn’t know if he needs to stay, and will they see to it that this boy gets medical treatment, and does he need to pay for it. He’s trying to be responsible, Prompto gets that, but he’d actually just like him to go away.

“Dude, it was an accident,” Prompto says. “Just go on with your business.” His voice sounds weaker than he remembers, but that might be because his ears are starting to ring.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” The tourist really does look it, with his hands clasped in front of him and his head lowered.

“Just take your bag off next time, so you don’t do this to some other guy,” Prompto tells him.

“Yes, definitely I will.”

The first aider – a tall, uniformed man with a broad waistline – lopes towards them. Very quickly, Prompto finds himself holding a disposable paper bowl, and there are warm fingers in latex gloves on his face. The newcomer pinches his nose then, hard enough to make his eyes water again.

The first aider tells him not to sniff or talk or swallow, so he doesn’t. Around him people come and go in blurs, experienced fighters of the peak-hour crowd. Some look at him in concern as they pass by, others with criticism. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t want to be here.

The first aider takes his hand off his nose. For a second, Prompto thinks that’s it, the bleeding is done, he just needs a minute to sit here and he’ll be fine. In less than a second it returns, and the flow of it is just as bad as it was before. Prompto clamps his fingers over his nose again to save the first aider the trouble.

“Do you get a lot of nosebleeds?” the lady staff member asks him.

“When I was a kid. Not for ages, though.” Is he _panting_? He is, he’s panting. Still, he can’t exactly breathe through his nose, so mouth breathing is his only option.

It’s a nose bleed, he reminds himself. He’ll be fine. No matter that he’s still shaking, his face hurts, and he feels like he might puke at any moment.

He should probably just go home. It’s only ten minutes from here. So what if his knees are trembling, he keeps blowing hot and cold like he’s feverish, and every time he takes his hand off his nose there’s more blood?

It’s not stopping. That thought brings on the nausea again.

The station staff seem to have decided without Prompto’s opinion that their first aider isn’t enough. Here come the paramedics now, their green and yellow uniforms seeming to take up the entire escalator as they descend. There’s a man and a woman, both carrying big red duffel bags in their hands.

When she reaches him, the lady paramedic asks his name and he gives it. She asks him if he has any health conditions or allergies.

“Just some peak-season hayfever, and some sort of confirmed-unconfirmed problem with my gut,” he says, wishing he could just become invisible. The embarrassment might even get him sooner than blood loss.

He’s having a conversation about his guts with a total stranger during an epic nosebleed on a train platform while being stared at by commuters. It’s going to be a great story to tell Noct. Eventually. If he doesn’t die of blood loss first.

He feels like the lady paramedic has asked him something else, and he’s probably answered, but he can’t remember for sure. Distantly, he wonders if he’s a little bit more confused than his conscious mind can recognise – as though there are two parts of him in this moment, a quiet part that knows what’s going on but has fallen asleep, and a noisy part that’s making things up as it goes along.

“You sure you don’t have a bleeding disorder?” The paramedic dude asks.

That sounds like something he doesn’t want to have. “No. Don’t think so.”

Prompto’s phone trills a message arrival. The paramedic says something about not getting up, so he doesn’t, but he does reach into his pocket.

He leaves bloody prints on the screen as he unlocks the phone. The message is from Noct. Finally.

_Dude, sorry, was in a meeting. Forgot we had plans ): ):_

Prompto can’t repress a dark laugh. After all that time worrying the excuse seems flimsy. He _forgot_. He forgot him the whole damned day long. The thought that Noct doesn’t want to be his friend post-graduation looms again.

Maybe this is it – maybe this is how princes move on from their best friends. Maybe this is how Prompto’s heart gets broken. Maybe this is how he gets to say _yeah, me and the prince were buddies in high school but we didn’t keep in contact_ to his grandkids.

He doesn’t know how to feel, or what to say. This is too much on top of everything that’s happening right now, but he knows he has to say something. Can’t leave Crown Prince Noctis of Lucis hanging.

What can he say, though? _Sorry, can’t talk, I’ve got the nosebleed from hell rn and I’m surrounded by paramedics - gtg._ Or maybe, _some guy with a massive backpack just crushed my face and I’m bleeding all over the station._ Or maybe, _I sat around and waited and worried about you all day, and I didn’t even get something to eat. Manners, dude._

In the end, he decides this is not the time to make snippy remarks he’ll regret later. The phone trembles in his hold, and he’s so high on adrenaline it’s hard to keep his hand still enough to type. His bloody thumb tacks across the screen.

_Nah, bro, don’t worry. I wasn’t even waiting that long! :P_

What’s happening to him right now is too big and complicated to put in a text. There’s nothing Noct can do about it anyway, so there’s no point in bothering him. Prompto’s used to dealing with this stuff on his own. They can talk about everything later.

The lady paramedic says something about putting him in the ambulance as he slips his phone back in his pocket. No way. Dragging him to hospital seems like a total waste of other people’s resources and time. He’s got this. It’s just a bit of blood.

Okay, so it’s a lot of blood.

“No. No ambulance. I can walk, I live… near. I can deal at home.”

“Sorry, boss. Can’t let you go home if we can’t stop the bleeding,” says the dude paramedic as he strips his hands of the gloves. “Let’s get you back to base and have somebody look at you in detail.”

The shame just gets worse as he’s escorted off the bench and towards the escalator. The way people look at him makes him feel like he’s some kind of backstreet brawler, fighting for kicks and a handful of Crowns behind the arcade. His legs feel wobbly. Maybe the paramedic is right. Maybe he can’t walk home from here.

The two paramedics stand either side of him on the moving step, hands firm on his arms. He closes his eyes as the three of them ascend, worried he might actually throw up if he sees everything moving around him. He’s still holding the bowl, so at least he has somewhere to put it if he does puke. The lady paramedic is still squeezing his nose.

 

Prompto’s never been in the back of an ambulance before. As he looks up into it, he can see a stretcher (thank God he’s not a stretcher case), some cupboards, more boxes of latex gloves than he’s ever seen in one place, plastic drawers with frosted fronts, and bits of machinery with green and red covers.

Walking seems to be okay, but lifting one foot as high as the other knee requires more skill than he remembers. His foot wobbles somewhere near the top step. One of the paramedics has to press his foot onto it, then they help him step inside.

No wonder he’s only scraping the average bit of the top quartile. Ha ha. Tomorrow this’ll be funny. Right now, it’s just excruciatingly embarrassing.

The lady paramedic pulls out a seat cushion and turns what had looked like a padded leaning post into a proper chair with a seatbelt attached. She sits him down and straps him in. Letting go of his nose for a second, she inspects it gently. Although the trickle of wet heat is slower than it had been before, it still comes.

“You need to take over for me,” she says, indicating his nose with a nod.

Prompto reaches up to do so, gingerly saying, “Sorry for the trouble.”

The paramedic smiles at him as she comes out of her crouch. “What trouble? You’re as good as gold. I’d rather have you every Friday and Saturday night than our normal drunken clientele. Not that you should make this a habit.”

She fishes around in one of the plastic drawers, pulling out a small, long white packet. Prompto watches as she opens it, revealing a very long, unpleasant-looking needle.

“Is it okay if I take your hand here a second?” she asks.

There’s an engagement joke in there somewhere, but Prompto doesn’t feel like making it. “Sure.”

“Little scratch,” she says as she slides the needle into the back of his hand. It’s more than a little scratch, but he doesn’t mention it. He looks away for a second, and when he looks back she’s stuck the cannula in place with some kind of large, clear plaster.

Opening a cupboard, she withdraws what looks like a bag full of water. Saline, he guesses.

“Just going to rehydrate you a bit. Okay?”

“Mm.” It’s all he feels like saying.

She leans in to examine his face closely at that, but seems not to find what she’s looking for. Instead, she hangs the bag on a rack in the ceiling of the ambulance. She makes quick work of opening sterile packaging and unwrapping tubes, and does something so quickly with a sharp thing and the bottom of the bag of saline that Prompto can barely track it.

He focuses his attention on the cannula port poking out of his hand.  

“How are you feeling?” the paramedic says as she attaches a tube to it. No sooner has she stepped away than he feels coldness seeping through his hand and into his arm.

“Out of it,” Prompto admits.

There’s something uniquely awful about this much blood. Losing a little bit of blood is okay. But seeing this much blood all over himself, snaking over his chest and collecting around the patch pocket of his hoodie like someone got overexcited in drama class, knowing it just doesn’t seem to want to stop, that maybe it won’t until he’s dead… That makes him feel like there’s two flints banging together inside him, sparking hard and near to setting him afire.

He quickly feels nauseous again. This time, he doesn’t get away with not needing the bowl.

Afterwards, he spits into it, eyes closing as the shame overwhelms him. “Sorry.”

“Psh,” says the paramedic as she takes the bowl from him. “That’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to me today.” He’s quickly given a fresh bowl, and he’s determined not to use this for anything but his nose bleed.

 

By the time Prompto reaches the hospital, his anxiety is peaking. He’s used to dealing with his health issues as an outpatient. The involvement of two paramedics, a first aider, and the disruption of an entire train station are way beyond his experience level.

As the two paramedics walk him cautiously out of the ambulance his first instinct is to run, but he doesn’t. He lets them take him through the double doors. The lady paramedic hands his care over to a man inside the doorway, and he feels a peculiar wrench when she gives him a grin and tells him to look after himself. She waves as she heads back out. He watches her go, unable to smile in return.

Prompto’s aware of the triage nurse introducing herself, but even after that he hasn’t got a clue what her name is. He can barely remember his own while being checked in. He’s quickly given a seat, and a printed wrist band with his name and date of birth on it. He’s resumed management of the bowl, at least, and has been given a stand for the bag of saline. The constant chill of it makes him feel shivery.

He feels frustrated by the glare of the lights and the brush of every breeze on his skin, all interspersed with the noises of the people around him breathing and talking loudly. All the sensations are messed up, inseparably knotted together.

He hasn’t been sitting for more than ten minutes when a woman stops before him. He’s still trying to untangle what he’s experiencing, so doesn’t notice her white tunic or the upside-down nurse’s watch pinned to it until she puts her hand on his shoulder. He looks up, the sleeve of his hoodie bundled over his nose.

“Mr Argentum?” She asks, and smiles when he nods. “Come through. Let’s take a look at you.”

He’s led through a set of double doors to a wide room partitioned into a series of cubicles, each with a green curtain across the front. Some curtains are drawn and some aren’t. He can see feet under the closed ones.

At the centre of the room is a desk with computer screens, and people in different kinds of medical uniforms come and go there, picking up pens or dropping off clipboards. There people in blue scrubs and red scrubs, white tunics and green tunics. Some wear plastic aprons and disposable gloves.

His nurse wheels his IV stand into a cubicle.

“Sit up here on the bed for me and I’ll be back in just a minute,” she says, and closes the curtain behind her as she leaves.

It keeps none of the sounds out, but manages the pretence of privacy quite well. Prompto tries not to touch anything as he gets up onto the bed, complete with hard mattress and pale blue sheets. He rubs his sticky hands on his jeans.

He hasn’t felt so profoundly alone for a long time.


	2. I Won't Let it End this Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct makes bad decision after bad decision on the first day of his post-high school career as Actual Crown Prince Noctis. 
> 
> It's not until he's shaking hands with the director of a charity in the Great Hall of the Citadel that he remembers he's supposed to be Somewhere Else.
> 
> Well. He was woken up early. It's hard to make good decisions when you're not really awake yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a short chapter, but I decided all you fabulous people deserved more than that. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the great comments I've had on chapter one of this fic, and for all the kudos. It makes me happy to know you enjoy reading my work. 
> 
> (If you don't enjoy reading my work, let me know, too - can't decide it needs fixing if you don't tell me about it :))
> 
> Special thanks to whimsofffate this time, who gave me the food for thought that set the tone for this chapter, and helped me figure out where I'm going with chapter three. Kudos to you, lovely <3

Noct’s thumbs are fast on the screen of his phone. Laying on the sofa of his apartment, his legs hang over the arm rest. The day has been long, and the arguments have been draining, but he thinks he’s made some progress.

As a new graduate of high school, his father had expected him to take on more official duties immediately. _You are next in line to the throne, Noctis. You must be visible and accessible to your people, and be prepared for all the honours and burdens that entails._

Somehow, Noct hadn’t got the memo until that morning, when Ignis had come to drag him out of bed, suit him and boot him and drive him to the Citadel. Once there, he’d been paraded in front of dignitaries all day long. His only prep had been a paragraph of discussion points on a slip of paper Ignis jammed into his hand between meetings.

Noct had been roused so early, and was so stunned by the path of the morning, that it was past mid-day before he remembered that he was supposed to be somewhere else. The realisation struck as he stood in the Great Hall, slowly making his way down a line of charity representatives called to the Citadel for a meet-and-greet.

He’d managed to keep the sudden alarm off his face even as he reached out to shake the hand of a tall, thin man with a balding head and twitching eye. Ignis later told him the man was responsible for distributing charitable provisions in Galahd. It was just as well he had, because Noct had missed the four seconds after shaking his hand entirely and the context of the man’s thanks for the royal care packages was lost on him. Instead, his brain had delivered the newsflash:

_You’re not meant to be here._

There was no clock in the throne room, but a clandestine glance at his watch had told him it was mid-day. Prompto would already be waiting for him. They’d agreed to meet at the bench a few hundred yards into the park, just beyond the gilded wrought-iron gates. Noct had imagined him there, checking the time on his phone, but there was nothing he could do to edge out of the Great Hall. He’d be spotted in a moment, since there were another forty charity representatives being given thanks by his father two handshakes down.

Just as he’d thought to excuse himself for a toilet break, the serving staff emerged from the side door down to the kitchens, delivering wine and a buffet lunch.

For the sake of propriety, Noct had silenced his phone on arrival at the Great Hall. By the time he finally took the opportunity to escape for his solar, he’d already received two messages from Prompto:

_Dude, are you still coming? Or do you need me to come meet you somewhere else? I can jump on the subway and come to your apartment instead?_

and

_Dude, I haven’t got the wrong day or anything, have I? I think cramming has fried my brain :o_

In the quiet of the solar Noct had paced, trying to find the right words. By then it had been more than two hours after their agreed meet time, and anything he said was going to sound ridiculous.

He was supposed to be an adult – he’d earned the right to call himself that, surely? He was about to graduate high school, and working part-time at the sushi place had presented him an intimate snapshot of the lives of the Crown City folks. But suddenly he wasn’t allowed the grace of his own decisions or his own time? All the independence he’d worked towards, he had to give up?

Three times he’d navigated to Prompto’s number, and three times he’d backed out of calling.

Prompto had probably left by then, anyway. He’d have to patch things up with him later. There’s no way he’d just stand in the park all day and wait for him.

By then his absence in the Great Hall had been noticed, and Ignis had been sent to his solar to retrieve him. In a dark mood he’d been unable to shake, Noct had descended the main staircase for another round of meetings.

After the meet and greet, there had been a meeting of senior advisers to his father. The key subject of the day had been the increasing number of vulnerable citizens outside the wall entering poverty, and the Throne Room was filled with meaningful discussion on how to tackle it.

The seriousness of this hadn’t been lost on Noct. He knew his father took the care of his people very seriously and was, as far as Noct could tell, a fair and just leader. Noct didn’t feel he could add anything to the suggestions of his father’s seasoned advisors, and even if he could he’d need time to think about what his own suggestions might be.

At one point, an adviser asked him,

“Prince Noctis, you have worked and lived amongst the people. What have you observed in regard to their financial hardships?”

Noct had blinked, reminded himself where he was and who he was with, and said, “I may live amongst them, but I still hold a privileged position. Poorer citizens don’t eat in the sushi restaurant, and most people at school don’t speak frankly to me about their home lives.”

Even the one classmate who did talk to him frankly didn’t have much to tell him about his home life. Prompto always answered so dismissively about this parents that Noct had stopped asking. He knew he was an only child. He’d been to Prompto’s house a handful of times. It was small, simple, clean, and unadorned. Usually he only went there to pick him up in the car. There had never been any evidence of hardship.

Not financial hardship, anyway. Evidence of emotional hardship was in the constant lack of his parents, the absence of their personal effects, and the series of post-it notes left for Prompto on the fridge:

_Won’t be back until Wednesday. Grocery delivery due this evening at ten. Mom x_

_Congrats on your 95%! Can you remember to put out the dustbins? Mom x_

_Your history teacher sent a letter. Not happy. I’ll call when I’m on the ferry. Mom_

_Stop being a waster and decide what you’ll do when you leave school. You’ll have to survive on your own eventually. You can’t freeload off the prince forever, or your mother. I’m home next week, we’ll talk man to man then._

Prompto had never freeloaded from Noct in his life. In fact, at first, he’d had to coax him into accepting even such simplicities as food when he stayed at the apartment. Noct had always assumed it was because he was so used to fending for himself that accepting generosity from others had felt awkward.

The debate on the eradication of poverty in the Throne Room had continued apace, while Noct felt even more wretched for standing Prompto up.

He’d been at the table of advisers for an hour or more before Ignis had crouched at his seat, murmured a request to forgive the intrusion, then showed him a text message Prompto had sent directly to him.

_Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d seen Noct today? He was going to meet me but he hasn’t shown up yet. Figured you’d know if he’d forgotten his phone or something :/_

Shown up _yet_? Noct’s gut had twisted at the idea of Prompto still sitting on the bench waiting for him. He’d tried to catch his father’s attention, but he was mid-conversation with Clarus about whether the structure of welfare payments needed to change.

Ignis had seen his conundrum. Quietly, he’d asked, “Would you like me to contact Prompto on your behalf?”

Noct shook his head at Ignis, who gave a nod and moved silently back to the wall. He was the one who’d stood Prompto up, and he needed to apologise for himself.

If it had been anyone else from school, or probably any other person in the world, Noct would have let Ignis deal with it. But not Prompto. His friendship with Prompto was not an official engagement. Nor was it a relationship that needed political management. It was an honest one, built on reciprocal trust and shared experience. With Prompto he could be himself, completely open, and still feel accepted.

Prompto was the only person in his life who never appended any sentence with _think of your responsibilities_. He was the one who said, _Don’t worry about it for now_. Or, _You’ve got this. Just talk to your dad._ Or, _I dunno, I think it was pretty good. Ya gotta learn, right? Nobody’s great straight off._ Or, sometimes, _This sushi, dude. Too much vinegar. It’s supposed to stick together! Like us!_

The meeting of advisers had gone on for another hour. It was all Noct could do to stay awake to the end of it. As the advisors excused themselves, Noct roused himself enough to walk to the head of the table, and his father’s side.

“Dad. Can we talk?”

His father had looked at him intently, then put a hand on his shoulder. “I have another meeting in half an hour. But come to my solar.”

In the solar, Noct had finally explained that he was meant to be elsewhere. He’d told his father about Prompto waiting for him in the park, though he managed to leave their plan to play games all day out of the discussion.

Regis had been enraged. Not because he’d made personal arrangements, but because he hadn’t said anything about them when summoned to the Citadel.

“A king cannot just stand up his friends, or his enemies! You must be fully present at all times, and you must be willing to speak up when there is an issue. That is leadership, Noctis.” Regis crossed to the window, fingertips to his temple. “How long was your friend waiting for you?”

Noct didn’t want to say the truth out loud, but knew he had no choice. “I don’t know.”

“It was irresponsible. We could have made some arrangement if only I’d known.”

“You sent Ignis to come and get me with no warning, then as soon as I arrived I was dumped into an event in the Great Hall! When, exactly, was I going to get a chance to talk to you?”

“I understand that I am not always as accessible as you’d like, Noctis. But you could have taken me aside at any moment. I’m disappointed you didn’t trust me enough to tell me this morning.”

Noct didn’t like to accept that his father might have acquiesced. If he accepted that, he had to accept that he’d called the situation wrong from the outset.

Instead of answering, he’d stayed silent.

“Prompto is a good friend to you,” His father had observed, making Noct wonder exactly what he knew. Did he get reports on their visits to the fountain in the city square where they lounged and people-watched on their way home from the cinema? Their bicycle races through the backstreets late at night? Or their visits to the game shop for Prompto’s pre-order of the latest console sharp-shooter game?

While Noct still wondered, his father had instructed, “You must apologise.”

“Obviously.” Because there wasn’t anything else to be said to that.

The last meeting of the day wasn’t going to add anything to Noct’s education in official duties, so his father had given him permission to leave. He’d promised that they would talk more about the duties he should take on in the next few days.

Noct had returned to his solar so he could drop off his suit and change into something more comfortable. In jeans and a t-shirt, he’d sat down on the bed to tie the laces of his trainers.

He hadn’t meant to flop down on his back and stare up at the ceiling.

He definitely hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

He woke to Ignis calling his name from the doorway. Never quick to come around, Noct had rolled over onto his side, his legs cold and numb from being hung over the edge of the bed.

“Gladio sent you a text. It seems Prompto messaged him after he messaged me,” Ignis had said, as he offered Noct a hand to help him up. Bleary-eyed, Noct reached out his other hand and Ignis put his phone into it.

There were three texts from Gladio.

  1. _Why is Prompto texting me?_
  2. _‘Hey, have you seen Noct? We were going to meet up today._ _Just checking you didn’t whack him too hard in training :p’_
  3. _You avoiding him or what? It’s a dick move if you are. Don’t want to be his buddy anymore? Tell him._



Noct was still half-asleep, and tired of being told what he already knew – that today had been a failday of epic proportions, that he was going to be a crappy king and was already a worse best friend – when he’d finally texted Prompto:

_Dude, sorry, was in a meeting. Forgot we had plans ): ):_

A few minutes after sending it, as though Prompto had been watching his phone, Noct had received a response:

_Nah, bro, don’t worry. I wasn’t even waiting that long! :P_

The response had been too easy, too casual. It’s not okay to be abandoned. Noct knew well that Prompto had been waiting for hours.

 

Looking at the message again now, with his back to the sofa cushions and the sound of Ignis podding peas coming from the kitchen, Noct’s own poor excuse of an apology makes his stomach flip. He hadn’t waited so long to apologise just to send something that pathetic. Prompto should call him out on his bullshit more often. If he doesn’t show himself respect, nobody else will, and Noct doesn’t want to have to choke anybody to make that happen.

Noct flicks through Prompto’s social media accounts. He hasn’t updated any of them since early afternoon. Even his photo blog hasn’t got anything new to offer, and Prompto never gets through a day without uploading a photo.

He’s reminded of the time Prompto had posted a selfie of the two of them together. Cor had called him within minutes, telling him he was putting Noct’s life in danger by sharing his location with the world. Noct clearly remembers the blood draining from Prompto’s face in the line at the coffee shop, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other hand jamming the phone to his ear. Since then, Prompto had never mentioned a single thing about Noct on any of his online profiles, no matter what they’d been doing.

But it’s not like him to stop posting for hours at a time.

In King’s Knight, Prompto’s profile just says:

_LOKTON_

_The deer here are the best! …Mmm, venison burgers._

_Last login: 6 hours ago_

It’s late, and Noct’s tired, but he can’t settle. Something feels off. Maybe he’ll ask Ignis to drop him at Prompto’s so he can give him a proper apology. It’s a while since they’ve spent all night gaming, and after today’s unpleasant surprises he’s already checked and there are no meetings for him to attend tomorrow.

There’s no point in going over there if Prompto’s not home, though. He can spend the evening sleeping instead and visit him in the morning.

He’s not sure whether Prompto knows he’s got a tracking app on his phone. Cor insists that if the crown prince is going to have friends amongst the populace it’s expedient to be able to tell where they are at any given time. Noct has the app, too. As do Gladio and Ignis. He knows damned well those two can both track what he’s doing and, by definition, whether Prompto is with him. Works nicely in reverse too, so he can find them if they happen to be somewhere other than under his feet.

When he opens the app, Noct fully expects the pulsing red dot that indicates Prompto’s phone to be over his house. Maybe at the corner shop just down the road from there. As a long shot, hovering over the local Thai place.

He doesn’t expect it to be set over a large square building marked ‘Curae Numine University Hospital’.

He barely hears his own exclamation. Sitting up straight, he reloads the app and tries again.

The dot is still in the same place.

Even after a full phone reboot, the dot remains stubbornly over the hospital. Noct’s on his feet by then, heading for the kitchen.

Ignis stands over the sink, rinsing the peas. He looks over his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“I need you to make a phone call.” Noct wonders if he’s as pale now as Prompto was that day in the coffee shop. When Ignis turns to face him, the sudden look of concern on his face makes Noct think that, yes, he is.

               

Noct clings to his phone with both hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His tongue catches against the back of his teeth as he runs it across them to distract himself. Ignis rests one hand on the kitchen counter, his phone to his ear, and Noct can just hear the ringing at the other end of the line.

Then the ringing stops, and Ignis takes a breath.

“This is Ignis Scientia, calling on behalf of Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.” Ignis rolls his eyes briefly. “Yes, the actual crown prince. I understand you have a patient named Prompto Argentum in your care?”

He nods firmly towards Noct, then turns his attention back to the phone. “What is his condition, please?”

There’s a long pause, and Ignis nods along with whatever’s being said. He taps his fingers against the counter.

“Yes, I understand it’s your policy not to give out personal information by phone, but–”

Noct gets up and heads to the hallway. He shucks on his jacket, flicking his hair out from beneath the collar. No matter the outcome of Ignis’ conversation with the hospital, they’re going there. He takes out his phone and speed dials ‘2’.

As soon as he answers, Gladio says, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“I need you to come escort me to the hospital. Prompto’s there.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Dunno yet. Got to go to find out.”

Ignis steps into the hallway. “Apparently even being Crown Prince of Lucis isn’t enough to squeeze information out of the nurse’s station.”

“Get your car keys. We’re going,” Noct says, yanking down the door handle.

Ignis slips into his own jacket and checks his pockets for the essentials: car keys, wallet, phone. “What about Gladio?”

“I’ll text him where to meet us. Come on!” Noct says, and steps out into the corridor before Ignis can delay any further.

 

When they reach the camera shop next to the dental centre, Gladio is already standing outside wearing his cap and jacket. Noct throws open the door almost before Ignis has pulled to a stop.

“Get a move on,” he says firmly and Gladio smirks before he steps into the back of the car, almost sitting on his charge in mock-haste.

“Getting fired up all of a sudden, aren’t we?” Gladio asks as he slams the door shut. His smile falters a little when he sees Noct’s face. “Hey. What’s happened?”

“Still don’t know. Prompto’s not answering his phone.” Noct passes his phone from hand to hand. He’s already turned off his screen lock so he can answer any messages quickly.

“He might have to turn it off in the hospital. Doesn’t mean anything.” Gladio’s confidence is reassuring, but Noct would feel much more assured if he could actually get Prompto to answer the phone, or even respond to a text. He’s sent two messages to him already:

 _Why are you at the_ _hospital? Call me pls_

and

_I don’t care how mad you are at me, just call_

“Even if his phone is on, it’s possible he’s being seen by a medic. That would prevent him from answering.” Ignis says as they drive smoothly around the fountain in the town square. For a moment Noct sees the two of them there, he and Prompto both, sitting on the concrete lip and sharing what’s left of a large carton of popcorn.

What if Prompto is too unwell to answer his phone? If he’s in the hospital, things can’t be good. He’s either very ill, or badly injured. He’s not the kind of guy who’d show up to the hospital with anything trivial. He’d deal with it at home if he could, or call Ignis like he did last summer.

Ignis had been cleaning Noct’s apartment when the call had come through. To keep his hands free, he’d put Prompto on speaker. Noct had heard the familiar voice from his study desk, and at Ignis’ dry humour had come into the bedroom to find out what was going on.

_Ignis!_

_Prompto. Have you dialled the right number?_

_Uh. Yeah. Look, can you tell me anything about thumbs?_

_You have one on each hand, they’re opposable, and each has two bones._

_No, ha ha, that’s… not what I meant._

_You sound very tense. Are you all right?_

_I think I’ve busted my thumb. It’s definitely not opposable anymore._

He’d fallen off a ladder in the back yard, trying to trim branches off a tree to stop his neighbours complaining. His first instinct hadn’t been to go to the hospital. His first instinct had been to check in with Ignis, one degree of separation from Noct himself.

After Noct had told him to stop being an idiot and go to the hospital, it turned out that he’d cracked the thumb bone nearest the palm and torn a ligament. He’d had his hand and wrist in a cast for six weeks. All he’d had to say for himself was, _Well, at least it was my left hand._

The car stops for a red traffic light. Ignis looks up at him in the rear view mirror. “Noct, have you tried seeing if his phone is still at the hospital? He may be home already if the situation isn’t severe.”

“I’ve been checking. That’s how I know his phone is still on.” The dogged red dot is as unchanging as the set of traffic lights seems to be.

Noct imagines Prompto waiting for him in the shadow of the park’s trees all afternoon. The park is a safe place, somewhere parents take little kids. There are wardens everywhere. The most dangerous thing in the park is the peckish squirrels. It’s hard to imagine, but perhaps something happened there after he sent his last text.

Or maybe on the way home? Prompto hasn’t been trained to fight from the age of eight like Noct has. All he has is an orange belt in whatever martial art he’d fallen in love with for six months when he turned sixteen. He’s got no fighter’s awareness when he’s out on the street. If somebody tries to take on Noct they’re going to have a bad time within seconds, but on his own Prompto is much easier pickings.

Noct remembers one of the advisors in his father’s meeting today saying,

_Insomnia is still the safest place to live in Lucis but street crime is on the rise. This is partly as a result of increasing poverty outside the wall. Anyone from Lucis has leave to come and go, as long as their paperwork is in order. There is vulnerability in the system, as well as in the people._

Noct tries to remember how his best friend had seemed the last time they met. They were both tired from exam cramming, though Prompto always seemed more responsive to stress than he was. He’d looked a little grey, but Noct had assumed that was just the pressure of exams. He’d complained a lot about being tired, but then they’d competed about who was most tired, the gimpy prince with chronic pain or the blonde string bean with temporary sleep deprivation.

Sometimes Noct was too quick to discount the suffering of others. His childhood injury wasn’t always on his mind, but the legacy of pain and the resulting fact that he’d probably never reach his full potential as a magic wielder were always with him.

Hadn’t Prompto mentioned something about not feeling well in a text a little while back?

Noct scrolls through Prompto’s text string. Words blur as they scroll downwards, and Noct jabs with his thumb to stop them. Teasing the messages down, he sees the texts he was looking for.

_I've crammed so much I’m dizzy with it! And I can’t breathe. Is that normal?_

Noct’s reply had been, _Yep. Get used to it._

_My heart rate is 113 bpm! I think I’m having a panic attack. Or a heart attack! D:_

_Go lay down for a while._

_IM DYING_

_No you’re not. Send me this again and I won’t answer._

_Fine >P I’ll die quietly on my own, then._

At the time, Noct had smirked, put down his phone, and closed his books for the night. Looking at it now, the final text in the series makes him grab his stomach.

Did the nurse’s reticence to tell Ignis anything mean Prompto’s condition was so serious they’d need to hear about it in person? Given that the nurse’s station had already refused to give out any information, would they even tell Noct what was happening to Prompto when they got there? His parents almost certainly wouldn’t be with him, and without their permission the medical staff might not tell Noct anything at all.

Noct’s thumb navigates to his father’s number. He’s quite prepared to compel them by royal decree if he has to.

“Looks like a small detour ahead for roadworks,” Ignis says. Noct looks up through the windscreen. Ahead of them is a line of red stoplights, curving around the corner and disappearing obliquely behind a building.

If Noct could cast a spell that lifted every car off the tarmac, he would.

“It shouldn’t add more than fifteen minutes or so,” Ignis says, as though he can hear the bang and clatter of Noct’s worries. “We should still be there soon.”

The car in front of them inches forward, and Ignis doesn’t waste time pulling almost to the bumper.

“Do we need to call Prompto’s parents?” Noct asks. He doesn't even know if he has their numbers. Why would he?

“No. That should be the responsibility of the hospital,” Ignis says. “I’m sure they’ve been notified by now.”

Noct tries not to think the next thought: his best friend’s imaginary parents, people he’s never even seen, standing in front of a doctor holding an organ donor form.

A phrase left unshaped flits through Noct’s head. It draws attention to the sense of dread balling in his stomach and intimates the plaque at the back of the Citadel’s chapel that commemorates the death of his mother. It’s the same hint of a phrase he can’t bring himself to think about in terms of his father, the same phrase he’d sensed as the warmth of the nurse who’d protected him from the Marilith drained away beside him.

Noct calls up Prompto’s last message again:

_Nah, bro, don’t worry. I wasn’t even waiting that long! :P_

No matter how long he looks at them the words will never say anything different. They’re a lie. They’re a lie to spare both of them the truth. Noct let his best friend down today, and he doesn’t yet know how badly.

He looks out of the window so he can keep his face straight as he redials Prompto’s number. The phone rings, and then like all the previous calls, goes straight to voicemail.

_Yo! You have reached that Prompto dude. Talk to me after the beep._

“Prompto. Call me when you get this. Just,” and Noct’s keenly aware his conversation isn’t private, but it doesn’t matter, “I don’t care what’s going on between us right now, I just need to know you’re okay.”

Because Prompto deserves to know, to feel, to understand, what it would mean to Noct if he wasn't okay. In reality he deserves far more than that. But until Noct can lay eyes on him, it'll have to do.


	3. All Endings are New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being taken to hospital in an ambulance was bad enough, but being kept in overnight is the last thing Prompto expects. He's got no change of clothes, no clean shoes, and nobody to keep him company. 
> 
> He also might have something wrong with him. Something seriously wrong.
> 
> It's impossible to imagine this day getting much worse. But when things are this bad, the only way is up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience while I got the final chapter up to scratch, guys. Honestly, it really needs more editing, but hopefully it's enough to satisfy your hurt/comfort needs and I haven't let you down :3
> 
> Thanks this time go to everybody who's been so kind about this fic - you're all ossum! X3

The hospital ward’s combined toilet and shower room is too big. Every barefooted step Prompto takes echoes, and even wheeling the IV stand makes too much noise. The memory of the doctor coaxing him to cough up half-formed slugs of congealed blood from the back of his throat is too new, and every time he remembers it he tries to clear his throat.

The nurse had warned him not to take a shower that was too hot, or get his face too wet, so he’s opted for the safer, more controllable sink-and-water routine. He braves a look in the mirror while the water sputters out of the taps.

His nose is swollen, and his face is in sympathy with it. The tail strings of the nasal packing are taped to his cheeks so that he can’t accidentally tug them, and there’s a wad of absorbent dressing strapped under his nostrils.

The packing hurts much more than he expected it to. It hurt when the doctor eased it into each nostril, and it still hurts now. Even his eyeballs ache.

Just a nosebleed, huh?

 

He hadn’t waited long in the curtained bay for the nurse to return, as promised, with a hospital gown folded over her arm. She’d stepped out into the emergency room afterwards, leaving him to shed his darkly stained hoodie and his t-shirt, then his shoes, socks, and bloodied jeans.

When he’d called her back in, she re-entered with a doctor. A lady doctor. Suddenly everything became even more embarrassing. He was glad the nurse had told him to keep his underwear on, but it didn’t stop him wishing he hadn’t got blood all over his jeans.

“Is there anyone we can call?” the nurse had asked.

Prompto had thought about his mom and the fact that she’d be worried, his dad and the fact that he wouldn’t, and Noct. Who he didn’t know how to feel about.

“No,” he said. “It’s okay. There’s nobody.”

“Isn’t there anybody looking after you at home?” The nurse pursed her lips, and Prompto wasn’t sure if it was because he wasn’t trying hard enough to think of somebody to call, or because his parents weren’t available to make a call to.

“Everybody’s away,” he said.

The doctor’s gloved fingers had been cold on his face as she’d examined his nose. No crush damage, no obvious blockages or breakages. How hard were you hit? How long have you been bleeding? Do you have any bleeding disorders (that question again)? Have you ever had surgery on your nose?

He’d answered her questions as best he could. When satisfied she’d moved back, stripped her hands of the gloves, and pulled up a chair. “Okay.”

Prompto steeled himself. None of this was made any easier by the doctor’s heart-shaped face, the delicate slope of her nose, or the natural wave in her chestnut-brown hair. He tried to stop himself thinking about how pretty she was, but it was a bit like trying not to have a heartbeat.

“I can’t see where the bleeding is coming from, which makes me think it’s from pretty far back in the nose,” the doctor said. “You have some blood clots forming back there, but there’s not the amount of clotting I would expect to see in a nosebleed like this. So what we’ll do is put some packing in there to stop the bleeding, and run some blood tests to see why this is happening.”

“Okay.” The idea of having blood tests for a nosebleed was sobering. “What are you looking for?”

“There could be a number of causes. Blood tests are just the first step. We’ll wait for the results and take it from there.” The doctor stood and took a fresh pair of gloves and two wrapped packages from a box on a shelf. “This does mean we’ll have to keep you in hospital overnight. We need to make sure the bleeding has stopped and isn’t going to start up again before you can go home.”

In the ward’s too big, too square bathroom, Prompto wipes at the last stubborn patch of blood under his chin. At least they’d let him clean up. He isn’t meant to be up and around without telling somebody, but the ward nurse had given him permission to wash after telling him that if he feels ill and needs help, all he needs to do is pull the red cord by the toilet.

Apparently a nurse will enter at that point, and there being a locked door in the way won’t matter. Being in hospital is scarier than getting the nosebleed was.

Looking over his shoulder at the cord, he can’t imagine a scenario where he’ll need to pull it. Turning back to the sink, he rinses his hospital-issue facecloth out in the pleasurably warm water.

It’s nice to be clean again. He might be experiencing his first ever overnight stay in hospital, but at least he can do it without being bloody. His mom was never good with blood, so it’s probably just as well she’s not here.

When he’s finished, Prompto steps out into the ward, dragging the ever-present IV stand behind him. The first thing he notices as he toes his way across the floor is the heat. He’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep. He gets it, sick people need to be kept warm, but _this_ warm? Really?

As he navigates to his bed, Prompto tries not to make eye contact with the other five patients on the ward. He feels very conspicuous in his poorly fitting hospital gown, and reaches behind him to hold the two sides of it together so his underpants aren’t visible.

The other people here have somebody at home who can bring them a change of clothes. They’re all settled in their beds wearing pyjamas or a dressing gown. Prompto doesn’t even have his hoodie.

Keen to maintain what’s left of his dignity, he reaches to draw the curtain around his bed before climbing in.

He’d left his mobile phone in the bedside cabinet while he washed. Opening the drawer, he sees the text notification icon on the lock screen and his hopes rise. Maybe it’s from Noct. Now he’s got time and space to exchange messages with him properly about what’s happening to him. But the fear that Noct’s rejected him looms again, and lingers as he unlocks the phone.

The message is from his dad.

_Have you paid the gas bill?_

Anger flashes through Prompto, and he types back:

_No, I’m in the hospital. I might be dying._

He doesn’t press send. Instead, he backspaces and types:

_Yes._

He knows he’ll have to tell his parents eventually. One of them will have to sign the insurance forms. And any future insurance forms. He tries to remember what level of coverage he has, and then tries to forget he’s having blood tests at all.

When he’s sent the message, Prompto flicks to the options menu, and selects ‘airplane mode’. He’s had enough of people and their texts. The hospital has wi-fi, so he signs on, pays the exorbitant fee with his dad’s credit card, and settles in, intending to binge watch as many videos of puppies falling over each other as he can take.

He doesn’t make it past the first fifteen minutes before he nods off, the warmth of the ward and his stack of pillows too calming to withstand.

 

When Prompto comes to, there’s another ward nurse standing beside the bed. He doesn’t recognise this one. She’s older, with hair that’s starting to grey and a stern nose.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’alright,” Prompto murmurs, shifting to make himself more comfortable. He watches the nurse insert a syringe into a port on his IV and depress the plunger. “What’s that?”

“More painkiller.” She draws a circle in front of her face with her index finger. “It’s sore, huh?”

“A bit.”

Prompto wonders if all nurses have voices as soothing as this one. He doesn’t remember the emergency room nurse having a voice like that. Or the nurse who told him to pull the red cord if he needed the help of strangers in the toilet. Maybe this one was saved for night-time because she could talk with just one patient and not wake up all the others.

“It’s too sad to be stuck in here all alone.” She withdraws the syringe. “Isn’t there anyone who can be with you?”

Prompto’s warm, and half asleep. It feels like it might be okay to say, “No. I guess I’m just not worth the effort.”

He’s surprised by the tears prick his eyes, and he blinks hard to get rid of them. The nurse makes a soft noise, and asks, “Can I sit?”

Prompto nods, and she perches on the edge of the bed.

“I know there’s probably somebody you could call that you haven’t,” she says. “And I know, even without knowing you, that you’re worth the effort. How could you not be? You’re young, and handsome, and polite. And I bet you’re smart and hardworking, too.”

Prompto blushes. His face is burning hot right up to his eyes, and burns more when he realises he’s probably a shade of plum. The nurse hides a smile badly.

“Are you sure there’s nobody? I’d be happy to make a call for you?”

Prompto shakes his head, though he’s not convinced he means ‘there isn’t anybody’ anymore, because he might mean, ‘I’m not sure’.        

“Think about it and let me know,” she says. “My name’s Almitas. Just press the red button by the bed if you change your mind.”

Prompto nods, but keeps his eyes on his phone. He wonders if it’d be okay to tell her that he’s scared, that he doesn’t know what the blood tests will show, that he’s feeling overwhelmed right now. But he leaves it too long and Almitas excuses herself, closing the curtain behind her. Prompto listens to her steps recede until all he can hear is the quiet hum and shift of the hospital ward as evening turns into night.

He looks at his phone for a bit longer. Maybe he could just turn off airplane mode and text Noct. See what he says – if he’s still awake. Maybe Almitas is right. Maybe he should send Noct a message that says, _Dude!_ _My nurse thinks I’m handsome_ , and see where that goes.

It’d be pretty nice if he wasn’t alone right now.

Prompto senses a presence at the entrance to the ward, followed by heavy, rapid bootsteps and what sounds like somebody breathing heavily. He hopes whoever they’re here to see so late appreciates the rush.

The curtain around Prompto’s bed is swished back at speed. Standing in the gap, looking dishevelled and rigid, with his phone grasped in one hand and the other still on the partition, is Noct. A bead of sweat trickles down his cheek. He’s wearing an expression Prompto’s never seen before – he didn’t know Noct’s eyebrows could go up so far.

“Noct! What are you doing here!?”

“What am _I_ doing here?” Noct raises both arms as though he’s making space for his irritation. “What are _you_ doing here?!”

“Oh.” Because that is a good question.

Noct doesn’t wait for Prompto to answer it. He pulls up the side chair so it’s close to the bed, and sits. Before Prompto knows it, both of Noct’s hands are on his lower arm, and his head sinks, so all that can be seen is the spiky top of it. He’s probably squeezing harder than he realises, because it’s a bit uncomfortable.

It’s not until Noct rubs his arm with the left hand that Prompto realises he’s trembling.

“Dude. You okay?”

“No. Why didn’t you answer any of my messages?”

“What messages?”

Noct looks up and gestures with one hand. “I sent you maybe five messages. Don’t tell me you didn’t get any of them?”

With his free hand Prompto picks up his phone from his lap. He waggles it nervously. “Airplane mode. Hospitals. You know.”

Noct sighs as he flops back into the chair and looks at the ceiling. It doesn’t escape Prompto’s notice that he keeps one hand on his arm the whole time. It’s kinda nice.

“You have as long as it takes for Ignis to park the car to fill me in,” Noct says, setting his gaze on him. He indicates Prompto’s face casually. “Getting a nose job without telling me?”

Like the click of a camera, Prompto makes the connection between Noct’s damp face and Ignis still parking the car. “You _ran_?”

“Am I usually a sweaty mess? Yes, I ran. Part of the way, anyway. Now just fill me in.”

So Prompto does. He tells Noct all about the journey he took on the subway, the tourist with the backpack, and the subsequent nosebleed. At Noct’s scoff of disbelief, he tells him to get the green hospital-issue plastic bag out of the bedside cabinet, where all his soiled clothes have been stuffed. Noct’s lips thin as soon as he sees the hoodie.

Then Prompto tells him about the paramedics and his first trip in an ambulance (no blue lights, though), and waves his cannulated hand while he tells him about the IV. Then his memory gets fuzzy, so he tells him what he can remember about hospital triage, the disappointed nurse, the hot lady doctor, and being kept in overnight because,

“They think something else is wrong with me.” That part’s harder to say than anything that came before it.

“What kind of something?” Noct says.

Prompto feels awkward at the sudden focus in Noct’s voice. “Dunno. They won’t speculate.”

“But they’re investigating?”

“Yeah.”

Noct still hasn’t moved his hand. “How soon will they tell you?”

“I guess by tomorrow?” It hadn’t occurred to Prompto to ask. “I’m sure it’ll be –”

Noct’s on his feet before Prompto can finish, heading towards the exit. He walks with determination, his bearing showing off every official engagement and weapons lesson he’s ever had. He looks, Prompto thinks with a start, like a king-in-waiting. In all the years he’s known him, Prompto’s never seen him look so stately.

The nurse’s station is just outside the door, and Prompto can hear Noct talking with Almitas. His words are assertive but not clipped, though Prompto can’t make out much more than ‘tests’, and ‘move’. He hears Almitas’ soft tones, and to his surprise, it’s Gladio’s voice that responds. _It’s necessary,_ Prompto hears him say, _for the security of the Crown Prince_.

Prompto wishes he could hear everybody as clearly as he hears Gladio. He’s missing too many parts of the conversation. He’s tempted to get up and step out into the corridor, but then Ignis appears in the doorway to the ward, nods at him, then disappears again. Bemused, Prompto waits.

Noct is still walking his upright, stately walk when he re-enters the ward a few minutes later.

“Can we try a potion?” Noct asks Ignis while they’re heading towards Prompto. They talk as though all the other patients in their beds along the walls, dumbfounded by the prince’s presence, aren’t even there.

“A potion would stop the bleeding but it won’t fix any underlying systemic issue,” Ignis says before stopping at the bed. “Hello, Prompto. Seems you’ve had quite a day.”

“Hope you put the other guy on his ass,” says Gladio as he joins them, lifting his cap and smoothing his hair before putting it back on his head. “What happened?”

Before Prompto can launch into his story again, Almitas arrives behind them with a wheelchair. It’s very wide, very blue, and very unwanted. Four small wheels support the seat, and on the back is a wide bar. It looks hard to manoeuvre, and impossible to use at any speed. It isn’t even the fun kind of wheelchair you can try wheelies in.

Almitas pats the back cushion. “Come on, you.”

“Where am I going?” Prompto asks. He doesn’t move, still staring at the wheelchair and hoping he can get out of having to go anywhere in it.

“Just get in the chair,” Noct says, and extends his arm for Prompto to hold on to.

“I can walk, though.” He might not have slippers, but he can get his bloodied trainers out of the green bag. That’d be a better option than the wheelchair.

“Hospital policy I’m afraid.” Almitas untangles the IV stand from the corner. “Can’t have you falling over on the way to your own room.”

“I – what?”

Ignis is already gathering Prompto’s belongings from the bedside cabinet, the green bag crinkling loudly. There doesn’t seem any point in objecting further, so Prompto takes the offer of Noct’s arm, eases himself out of bed and, with a grimace, sits himself in the oversized seat of the wheelchair.

Almitas does something with the back of the chair, and tells him to put both feet on the footplates. Then, while the other three talk quietly, making sure they have everything that belongs to him, Almitas puts her hand on Prompto’s shoulder and leans in to whisper,

“You’ve gone from having nobody to having the Crown Prince of Lucis. That’s not bad going.”   

Prompto looks up at Noct. His usual brand of bored straightness is back on his face again as he turns over the bedcovers to make sure nothing has been left, but the look on it as he swept back the curtain is as clear in Prompto’s mind as though he were still standing there, looking right at him.

Feeling a real smile on his face for the first time in hours, Prompto says to Almitas, “No, it’s not.”

Noct dumps the green bag in his lap. “You can carry that.” He ruffles Prompto’s hair roughly as he passes, then puts both hands in his pockets as he strides towards the hospital corridor.

“You heard His Highness.” Gladio takes the bar on the back of the wheelchair and, since it’s designed to be pulled and not pushed, Prompto soon finds himself with his back to the both of them.

Prompto has to cling to both arm rests as the noisy wheels squeak across the linoleum. His feelings about the manoeuvrability of the wheelchair had been right. Walking would definitely have been better. The hospital corridor passes by in pastel green and sky blue, with a plastic handrail as an additional constant along the wall. They pass desks with people sitting at them, the ward toilet, and people who have stopped to give way to the entourage. There’s even one or two people gawking at Noct while they pause in their travels.

Almitas had been walking at Prompto’s side, but moves ahead when they get to the lift to make sure Noct leads them to the right floor. It goes up four floors, and when the doors open it’s onto a corridor that looks much less institutional than the other areas of the hospital. There is oakwood flooring beneath the wheelchair, a tall, slate-effect wall on Prompto’s right, and a row of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a garden on his left. It’s hard to see it clearly at night, but Prompto can just make out lush flowerbeds cut in circles into the turf, and a seat somewhere near the middle.

“Do I have to declare this upgrade to my insurance company?” Prompto says, feeling alarm creep over him. “Because I don’t think my excess will cover it.”

“Arrangements will be made,” Ignis says as he wheels the IV stand at Prompto’s side. His tone suggests that asking too many questions might cause embarrassment, so Prompto sets his eyes back on the long, dark stretch of garden. That’s going to be gorgeous in the morning.

“Hey, Ignis? How did you guys know I was here?”

Ignis glances down at him. “You may recall handing your phone to the Marshal for inspection?”

“Yeah?” Prompto had been asked to hand over his phone when it was new, maybe eighteen months ago. After Cor told him his behaviour could cause Noct’s death, he’d have agreed to anything.

“For many reasons,” Ignis says, “it’s prudent to be able to locate the allies of His Highness at all times.”

“Wait, the Crownsguard is spying on me?” Prompto shifts in his chair and rolls his shoulders. He’d do anything for Noct’s safety, but he’d like to have known in advance. It’s not like he’d have said no.

“Think of it as insurance,” Ignis says. “In this case, it’s worked out for you as well as for Noct.”

Prompto nods. He’d still be alone if not for the tracking software. The idea of going back to the overly hot ward now makes Prompto feel tense, where he’d had the eyes of other patients on him and only games and internet memes to keep him company. He tries to loosen up as he remembers that his friends are here. They came for him. Even without his having to call.

“Coming to a stop,” Gladio says as the tall window becomes a wall. The wheelchair squeaks to a halt and behind him Prompto hears a heavy sounding door open.

“Okay,” says Almitas, appearing at his side and taking the IV stand from Ignis. “I’ll let you walk from here because I’m nice like that.”

It seems like a lot of fuss when he could have walked from the ward, but when Almitas offers Prompto her arm he takes it. If the last fifteen minutes has taught him anything about being in hospital, it’s to just go with it. It’s nice to not have to worry about the details.

Prompto can’t help being impressed by his new room. Almitas lets him take the IV stand and he wanders, opening the en-suite bathroom door, playing with the dimmer switch to lower the lights, and pulling down the flap for the air conditioning control. It’s a blessing to be able to manage the temperature of the room. No more boiling half to death.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, he can see the glow of hundreds of pea lights hanging from an elm in the garden. Its branches reach over a wooden bench and Prompto thinks that it might be nice to go and sit out there now, in the ambience of the night greenery.

“All right, you have to be in the bed before I can leave,” Almitas says, and Prompto hears her throwing back the blankets. As he makes his way across the room, his attention is caught by a framed photo poster on the wall. It depicts the skyline of Insomnia from an unfinished industrial high-rise, steel beams framing the Citadel as it stands proudly under the dome of the Wall.

Whether you prefer the soft lines of nature in the garden or the starkness of man-made engineering on the wall, this room’s got your back, Prompto thinks. Also, the juxtaposition in that photograph is boss.

Settling beneath the blankets, Prompto notes that even they and the bedsheets are a higher quality than the ones downstairs. They’re smooth and weighty, but breathable. There was just no snuggle factor in the ward’s bed.

“There’s a red button on the wall behind you, just like downstairs,” Almitas says. “I have to go back to my ward, so it’ll be somebody else who comes if you call.” She turns to Ignis, Gladio, and Noct. “Anyway, you boys have it from here, right?”

Ignis bobs his head in thanks. “We’ll see to it that his needs are appropriately cared for.”

Almitas turns to Prompto at the door. Shielding her mouth so that only Prompto can see, she mouths, _Crown Prince of Lucis_ , and winks. When Prompto calls out his thanks, her response is a single hand waving briefly near the door frame, and then she’s gone.

“She was nice,” he says with a sigh. His face has started to hurt again, or maybe now that he’s less distracted, he’s remembered it’s supposed to be hurting. He’s probably not getting dentist-level painkillers. Still, if he did, he’d be embarrassing himself, so it’s not all bad.

Gladio flops down onto the sofa bed under the photo poster, while Noct takes his turn to explore the room. It actually looks like he’s giving an inspection. He knows that Ignis inspects Noct’s living conditions all the time, but seeing Noct take an interest in his environment is all new.

“Do you need anything from home, Prompto?” Ignis asks when he’s closed the room’s door.

“Yeah, clothes. And I guess another pair of shoes until I can clean my trainers.”

“And toiletries?”

Noct throws his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s some in the bathroom here, unless you want something special.”

“Nah, just… whatever’s easy. Thanks, Ignis. I owe you one.”

“It’s beneath me to count favours for a man in a hospital bed,” Ignis says, throwing out the collar of his jacket and straightening the lapels. He picks up the green bag of soiled clothes from the bed, and the door clunks shut behind him.

“Wow, when he ends a conversation, he really ends a conversation.” Prompto looks at Noct, searching for confirmation that he hasn’t said the wrong thing.

Noct pulls up the stylish leather visitor’s chair and sits. “Don’t worry about it. Ignis is Ignis.”

Prompto thinks that maybe he should have told Ignis where to find his clean socks. He’s run out of space for them in his chest of drawers. He feels a bit awkward about Ignis rooting through his stuff for clean smalls, though. Has he done a wash recently? He tries to remember as far back as this morning, but it feels like weeks ago. Maybe he doesn’t even have any clean socks. Oh gods, please let him have clean socks.

Had he tidied or cleaned lately? There was so much cramming for exams, and he’s been so tired the last month or so. A stocked fridge always took precedence over cleaning, and most days in the last week he’s felt as though his arms are heavy as boulders.

“Are you listening?” Noct is leaning forward in the chair, arms on the bed.

Prompto wonders if he’s starting to lose time. He didn’t notice Noct move, or Gladio walk to the window to gaze out over the garden. “I don’t know. What did you say?”

“I asked what time you were admitted.” An echo of the expression Noct wore when he pulled back the curtain flits across his face.

Prompto looks at his watch. “Maybe… four hours ago?”

“I’ve told them to hurry your results. We should –” Noct begins, but he’s interrupted by a growl that even makes Gladio turn his head.

“Okay… hi, stomach.” Prompto puts his hand on it. He hasn’t eaten anything since the bag of crisps, hours ago.

“Didn’t they feed you yet?” Gladio’s arms are crossed.

“No. Must have missed dinnertime.” Prompto hadn’t felt like eating anyway. He’d been planning to make something simple when he got home, but then backpack hell happened.

Gladio picks up his jacket from the back of the sofa. “Kitchens here’ll be closed now. I’ll go pick something up. Any preferences?”

Prompto considers. He’d started the day looking forward to a burger. Really, really looking forward to a burger, in ways that didn’t make a lot of sense since they didn’t make up much of his food intake anymore. Thinking about them now brought the desire back.

“Burger. With ice in the drink. Lots of ice.”

“You like watered-down soda? Weird.” Gladio zips up his jacket. “Noct?”

“Just get me whatever.”

Gladio promises to return soon, and once the door has thunked closed the room is quiet. Noct picks up the remote control unit, hanging from a metal loop on the side of the bed, and turns down the air con a few degrees. He starts to close the blinds on the window.

“No,” says Prompto. “Leave them open.”

Noct reverses the blinds and hands him the remote control. “You can change the lights, too.”

Prompto can’t resist that. The lights go from fully on to very low and then off as he plays with the buttons. There’s even an ambient light setting, though the lights immediately above the bed can only be dimmed. It’s still a hospital, and it’d suck if doctors had to find the light switch before running in to save your life.

Noct unlaces his boots and tugs them off, tucking them between the wall and the bedside cabinet. Prompto watches him settle into the chair and pull a blanket off the back of it to throw over his legs.

There’s something Prompto has to ask. Before being swept away to a private hospital room, and before seeing Noct’s face when he swept back that curtain, Prompto was sure he knew the answer. But the experiences of the day had given him two polar opposites to work with, and he can’t see through the confusion of it all anymore. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer, but that can’t prevent him knowing. He has to know, has to prepare himself for the worst, because that’s the only way he’ll survive it.

“Dude. Are we… okay?”

Noct seems to spend a lot of time straightening the blanket before he sets his gaze on the garden. Then on the sofa bed.

“Yeah,” he says, looking back out over the garden. “We’re okay.”

“Are you sure? Because you stood me up today.” Prompto’s mind goes back to sitting on a bench in the train station, nose bleeding everywhere while reading Noct’s last text to him: 

_Dude, sorry, was in a meeting. Forgot we had plans ): ):_

It’s almost a minute before Noct speaks. He can’t look at Prompto while he explains how he was summoned to the Citadel and asked to complete official duties that he hadn’t known about in advance. He tells Prompto that his father had wanted him to be there to meet dignitaries and observe a meeting of the council, but that he could have done that on any day. Prompto can sense his anger, and knows his best friend well enough to know the anger isn’t directed at him, or at the king, or even at the situation. It’s directed at himself.

Noct goes on to tell Prompto how he had wanted to send a proper message, and a decent apology, but by the time he’d been able to slip away he assumed he’d already left the park.

“Because who waits around for a guy all day?” Noct says, finally making eye contact.

“For my best bro? I do,” Prompto says. “You could have just told me. I know you have duties the rest of us plebs don’t have.”

“Look, I’m… used to having Gladio and Ignis telling me what to do all the time. And you used to call me out when I was an idiot. I… need you to go back to doing it.” Noct rubs his face. “And I’m sorry. I should have contacted you sooner and not just left it.” His expression hardens and he rubs his fist absently. “I won’t fail to act again.”

Prompto looks up at the ambient lights. His chest feels bigger, and his breathing is easier. Turning back to Noct, he says, “So we’re really okay?”

“We’re really okay.” Noct nods. “If you still want me.”

There isn’t anyone Prompto wants more. He smiles widely and lifts his cannulated arm to be bumped, and Noct doesn’t wait to take up the offer, cradling his chin in one hand and trying to hide a smile just as wide.

It’s nice to have a reason to smile again, but it makes Prompto’s face hurt. He massages his forehead and as much of his eye sockets and temples as he can bear, but the packing the lady doctor inserted into his nose has swollen up and touching his face makes everything hurt more.

“You okay?” Noct asks.

“Ugh. Yeah.” Prompto squeezes his eyes shut. “You do not want to know what they’ve shoved up my nose, dude.”

“Nope.” Noct opens the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Pulling out Prompto’s phone, he tosses it to him. “Call your parents.”

“I called them already,” Prompto lies. He reaches to scratch his nose instinctively, but it just sharpens the ache. Instant karma.

Noct looks at him over the top of his own phone, then continues to type on the screen. He doesn’t look up when he says, in the same tone, “Call your parents.”

Prompto looks at his phone. The battery indicator shows the charge at 3%. “Aww, look at that. Battery’s too low to make phone calls.”

“Fine. I’ll get Ignis to call them.” Noct sits back in the chair and crosses his feet on the bed, phone still in his hands. Prompto slaps the socked feet, then tickles the sole of one. Noct jerks back, immediately pulling his leg away.

“Oh-ho, so _Crown Prince Noctis of Lucis_ is ticklish?” Prompto waggles his fingers and moves in to get at the other foot, but Noct pushes himself up on the arms of the chair and, supporting himself like the highly trained martial artist he is, holds both legs parallel in the air like a gymnast on a horse. He shoves himself forward enough to brush Prompto’s ear with the toes of one foot.

“Facefacefaceface!” Prompto cups his hands over his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, shoulder raised in self-defence. When he braves to open his eyes, Noct’s sitting in his seat, with his feet back on the bed, a smile on his face, and the phone in his hands.

“So I get to tell _Crown Prince Noctis of Lucis_ when he’s being an idiot. Seriously? Just remember, dude, you asked for it,” Prompto says.

Noct raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything else. The smile remains.

Prompto feels gratitude to his bones. There is something he wants to tell Noct, and it’s not that he’s an idiot.

He fixes his gaze on the photograph opposite him. The frame of the unfinished building is mostly all girders, but in the building blocks around them and beneath them there is also structural strength, support, and the promise of growth.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Prompto says, and nods firmly to himself. It’s okay if Noct doesn’t respond. He just needed to say it.

Noct swaps the position of his crossed feet on the bed. “I’m glad you didn’t turn me away. I wouldn’t like the guy who left you right now.”

Prompto blinks hard at the photo. Wow, he must be tired. Nothing’s making much sense anymore. His eyes are damp, and the picture is fading in and out. The girders seem to be bending.

“Room does music, too,” Noct says. “Well. Nature sounds.” Prompto senses him take the remote control and turn down the lights a little more.

“Maybe we can get this to play hard rock later,” Noct says, but his voice is oddly distant.

Prompto hears the gentle rumble of a thunderstorm, and can’t tell if it’s in the room or not. His head lolls.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you when the guys are back.” Noct dims the lights even further.

The plink of heavy rain on leaves and grass evokes a mental image of greenery, and Prompto imagines himself sitting on the park bench with Noct alongside him. Both of them are soaked from the downpour. Noct’s smile is apologetic as rainwater drips off his chin, palms flat between his knees on their wooden seat.

Prompto doesn’t have the energy to thank him before sleep comes.

The rest of the night is a blur of low-lit halogen lights, murmurs of overheard conversation, and sleep. Prompto is woken briefly for food he’s hungry for, but is almost too tired to eat. The burger is too big to get in his mouth without making his face hurt, so he has to cut it into small pieces. It must look like he’s at risk of falling asleep before he finishes, because Ignis takes over with some plastic cutlery from the take-out bag. At some point tomorrow, Prompto thinks, he’s going to be embarrassed about that. But then, he’s no longer embarrassed about the things he was embarrassed about this afternoon, so maybe not.

The burger is _good_. _So_ good. It might be the best food he’s ever eaten, small pieces cut up for him or not.

At some point, he’s woken by a strange nurse to be given more medication. Noct stands beside the newcomer, exuding a sense of supervision. Sometimes when Prompto wakes, Noct is sitting in the chair beside the bed with his phone in his hand. Sometimes he’s dozing on the sofa. Sometimes he’s standing at the window, looking out at the pea lights on the tree. _We’ll go sit out there tomorrow_ , Prompto says, but nobody responds so perhaps he only thinks it.

While the window is still dark but for the pea lights, Prompto hears Ignis say, _My name is Ignis Scientia, in the service of Noctis Lucis Caelum. I’m calling about your son._

Prompto wishes he could stay conscious enough to hear all of the conversation, but some of it disappears into a fog.

_His health is rather precarious. Yes, that would be best. I believe the next train from Cartanica leaves at six fifteen tomorrow morning._

The sigh after the pause is sharp, even slightly scathing. _I see. Wednesday is the best you can do. Then we will take it from here._

Haaaa. His workaholic parents are too tied up to come home. What a shocker.

But it’s all right, Prompto thinks. It’s not like he has nobody. He’s got three really important somebodies, right here.

 

In the morning, the male nurse lets himself into the room. Only just awake, Prompto watches him remove the cannula from his hand and cover the wound with a hardy waterproof dressing. He detaches the saline drip and doesn’t replace it, taking the waste with him when he leaves. He nods to Prompto to excuse himself.

He’s totally different to Almitas, Prompto thinks. More officious. Less instinctive. That must be how they like their nurses up here in the private quarters.

At some point in the night somebody must have closed the blinds, as the pale sun filters through the slats. Ignis is the only one up and around so early. Gladio is sleeping upright on the sofa, his head cradled in his hand. Noct is back in the seat beside the bed, the blanket back over his legs and his arm slung over his eyes.

Ignis is lit in silhouette as he moves to the bed, putting a familiar black and blue gym bag down on it.

“You weren’t able to check this last night, but you should have everything you need.” Ignis keeps his voice low so as to avoid waking Noct and Gladio.

“Thanks, Ignis.” Prompto watches as Ignis pulls the zip on the bag. He remembers his friend’s sharp tone as he spoke to one of his parents last night: _Then we will take it from here_. For the first time in his life, Prompto feels defended against their constant absence.

“I mean it.” Prompto fixes his gaze on Ignis until he glances up from the bag. When their eyes meet, Prompto says, “Thank you.”

Ignis pauses in that way he does when he’s noted something important, before nodding just once. He soon goes back to rummaging in the bag.

“I haven’t seen Noct show so much leadership for a long time.” Ignis pulls out a perfectly folded t-shirt. “His concern for you isn’t as casual as his behaviour is. I hope you will forgive him his… occasional oversights.”

Prompto nods. He’s not sure how much to tell Ignis about his feelings for Noct, or even if he knows what words to use. Instead, he says, “I don’t have much leadership potential to show, but my concern for him isn’t casual, either.”

“I believe that.” Ignis pulls out a clean pair of jeans, and Prompto has to imagine the scent of his fabric conditioner because the nasal packing means he can’t use his sense of smell. There are also some super-fresh underpants and socks (thank gods, Prompto thinks, he’d obviously done laundry sometime between now and last weekend), and some toiletries, including his own razor. His smart school shoes are extracted from a plastic bag and placed neatly on the floor beside the window.

The bag is packed with the precision of sweets bought in boxes from high-end confectioners, where every bit of space is filled and geometrically patterned. Prompto’s not sure how Ignis makes everything seem so effortless. He always feels like his brain slows down in a crisis and he can’t think things through. But Ignis seems to thrive on that stress, a concert pianist playing every incident like a complex sonata.

Prompto might be slightly in awe.

The last few things to be taken out of the bag are a heavy-duty hoodie with a zip, a pair of pyjamas, and Prompto’s slippers. He’s very glad to see the latter, even though the oakwood floor is heated from beneath. He reaches for the pyjamas, but Ignis puts his hand on them.

“You should wear your day clothes during the daylight hours here, especially if you’re kept any length of time,” Ignis says. “You’ll recover sooner if you maintain what routines you can.”

Prompto nods and reaches for the bag of toiletries instead. “Hope I won’t be here that long.”

“As do we all.” Ignis zips up the empty bag.

Prompto doesn’t get a chance to head for the bathroom before there’s a sharp rap on the door. An older man opens it, wearing a pair of black trousers and a casual shirt. There’s a stethoscope resting around his neck. Gladio stands as he walks in, like he hadn’t been asleep at all.

The man introduces himself as Dr Levatio. The newcomer’s arrival wakes Noct too, though he’s a little slower to throw off his blanket and get to his feet. When he has, he sits on the bed. The doctor lowers his head to Noct: _your Highness._ Noct pauses before nodding back to him sharply.

Underneath the concerned scowl, Dr Levatio looks kindly at Prompto. “I have news.”

Prompto takes a deep, slow breath. _It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. It’s going to be okay. It’s always okay. In the end, it’s always okay._

Prompto keeps that mantra of _okay, it’s okay_ in his mind as the doctor explains.

 “You have iron-deficiency anaemia,” he says. “That means your intake of dietary iron is too low, or your body isn’t processing it properly. I understand you’ve been working very hard to be successful in your exams?”

Prompto nods.

“You also have a chronic gastrointestinal condition yet to be determined, yes?”

Prompto nods again.

“And I see from your family doctor’s records you’ve lost a lot of weight over the last few years through dieting and exercise? Well done, by the way.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Prompto strokes his hair, embarrassed to be discussing that in front of Gladio and Ignis, who wouldn’t have given him a second’s attention back then.

“Did it feel excessively hard to study for your exams? Did you feel too tired to retain any information?” Dr Levatio asks.

Before Prompto can answer, Noct says, “He’s been feeling tired and dizzy. With a racing heart and symptoms of panic. Shortness of breath. Could anaemia be the cause of that?”

Prompto’s mind goes blank for a moment. “Have I?”

Noct shows the guilt he’s feeling in the momentary tilt of his mouth. It makes Prompto remember standing in the kitchen one night, using the counter to hold himself upright and trying to remember how to be calm. He’d texted Noct:

_I’ve crammed so much I’m dizzy with it! And I can’t breathe. Is that normal?_

Noct had texted back, dismissing it and telling him to lie down. With a lack of other ideas, he had. He’d been too exhausted to climb the stairs to bed, and had slept on the sofa in the front room. He’d sucked on ice cubes to distract himself until sleep came.

“Yeah,” Prompto says. “I have felt that way, now that he mentions it.”

“Yes, it’s possible that those are symptoms of anaemia. You were admitted with a highly unusual presentation of the condition, though. Anaemia tends to cause more blood clots, rather than less. It’s a symptom that only affects something like two percent of patients.”

“Lucky me,” Prompto says, slightly more caustically than he intends.

“Well yes, in a way. I wouldn’t like to say it was lucky that you had a run-in with a fellow subway passenger, but it certainly sped up the diagnosis. Anaemia can be quite dangerous.”

“How dangerous? How serious is it?” Noct asks, and Prompto hears the band of worry stricturing the questions. Looking at Noct’s face, he tries to access his expression but it’s locked down, as though if the news is too bad he’ll disappear behind it for good. Prompto bumps his friend’s knee with a fist to remind him that, for good or for bad, they’re in this together.

“Untreated, it can cause complications with the heart and other organs, but this case isn’t at that level of seriousness yet. It’s likely that, because you’ve been run down and have dieted for some time, your body’s iron levels have become depleted. It’s also likely that your gastrointestinal condition is affecting the rate of absorption in the body.” Dr Levatio says. “Do you have a family history of anaemia?”

“I… don’t know.” Prompto really doesn’t want the doctor to ask any more about that. None of the others know that his parents aren’t his biological ones, and they definitely don’t know where he’s from. Not even Noct knows.

Shame and need go to war in Prompto: shame because coming from Niflheim is something his best friend would surely hate him for, and need because all he wants is to keep getting the acceptance and love he’s been given all night. Even if wanting that makes him some kind of charlatan. Even if, right now, it makes him despise himself.

If this doctor has access to his family doctor’s records then he might know about his adoption, and might accidentally blurt it out. Quickly, Prompto says, “But I’ll ask when my folks get home. They’ll know, right?”

“I’m sure,” the doctor says. If he knows, he understands not to say anything.

“You said it’s likely to be those things,” Noct says. “When will you know for sure? Does he need more tests?”

Prompto’s really glad for Noct’s enquiring mind. They’re all such good questions. It’s really useful to have him here right now, since he’s tired – already – and very much in need of breakfast. He’d never think of all these questions on his own.

“I’d like to properly investigate the gastro problem and give him a proper diagnosis for that, and any medication he may need. We’ll start him on a course of iron supplements, and if all goes well he can go home tomorrow. He’ll have to take the supplements for a few months, but by then we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on,” Dr Levatio says. “Iron-deficiency anaemia responds very well to treatment. Even if this isn’t a one-off occurrence, once his iron levels are back to normal he’ll feel a lot better.”

Prompto feels better just knowing he has a treatable condition and not a terminal illness. It’s not even the much-threatened bleeding disorder. Not really. 

 

Even though Noct could leave once the diagnosis is made, he doesn’t. While Ignis excuses himself so that he can attend meetings and Gladio comes and goes to see what’s progressing, Noct stays with Prompto all day.

They sit out in the garden under the elm, and Prompto thinks this is probably better than the park. More peaceful. A little bit exclusive. Ignis had the foresight to bring his phone charger along with his care package of clothes and toiletries, so when he starts to feel the cool breeze across his shoulders they go back inside and play King’s Knight until they both fall asleep.

There are a few medical tests as the day wears on, some too embarrassing to ask Noct along for. Prompto’s sure the entire gastro department is an insult to cameras, because such fantastic tech was _not_ designed to go _up there_.

Even as Prompto prepares to spend another night in hospital, Noct stays. It’s just the two of them this time, and two Crownsguards standing outside the door. Prompto gives instructions while Noct folds out the sofa bed, making it like a sleepover. He doesn’t help, as he’s not allowed to exert himself and make his nose bleed again.

Turns out there’s even a TV in the end of Prompto’s bed that’ll take a video games console. When they find that out, Noct sends one of the guards to go and get one from his apartment. _Bring both controllers_ , he tells the guard.

Before bed, Prompto loops the quiet thunderstorm sounds again. They evoke safety. His night is peaceful, and sleep is thorough.

 

He’s released from hospital early the next morning, though not before the nasal packing is removed by a nurse over a disposable kidney dish. It’s a blessing to be rid of it and to be able to breathe through his nose, however carefully he feels he has to do it.

He and Noct both agree the removal is the grossest thing they’ve ever seen.

“Dude, I had no idea I was capable of producing that much nose gunk,” Prompto says as they walk to the car, where Ignis is waiting to drive them both to their respective homes. “That was truly disgusting.”

“I dunno. I always knew you were full of it,” Noct says, and elbows him in the ribs.

 

The hospital room was good – oddly like a hotel despite the events and the worry – but it’s even better to be home. More than that, it’s a cleaner version of home than Prompto remembers. He’d considered how the house must have looked to Ignis on the way home: the probably dirty breakfast dishes he hadn’t bothered with before he went to the park, the bed he didn’t make and the bedsheets he knows he hasn’t washed in a week or more, the explosion of books and pens and flashcards on most surfaces of the ground floor.

None of that is visible now. The house has been cleaned from top to bottom. Everything that didn’t have an obvious home has been piled neatly on the coffee table or the kitchen counter – everything else has been put away. Even his bed has been changed and made with military-grade attention to detail. The fridge has been given a thorough scrub, and his half-finished packets of salad and the cucumber he knew had been approaching the moulding stage had been tossed out. In their place there was a litre of milk, a bag of spinach, six eggs, and some other fresh produce. When Prompto closes the door, he sees a note attached to it with a magnet:

_Recipes are on the counter. All are high in iron. Ignis._

Prompto takes out his phone and sits on the sofa. He has to thank Ignis for this, to thank all of them, because he’s never experienced this much care and concern. He didn’t know it was possible.

Unlocking his phone, he realises he doesn’t know how to start.

It’s not until he’s been staring at the phone for ten seconds that he notices the voicemail icon in the notification bar. Mom had called to check in on him every few hours, and to wish him goodnight yesterday, which was nice. Even if she couldn’t get home.

He’s sure he hasn’t missed any calls, though.

When he calls the voicemail number and the network’s automated voice tells him the time and date, he realises that the call was received by the system when he had flight mode on – feeling sorry for himself in the curtained-off cubby hole of the hospital ward.

He doesn’t expect the message to be from Noct. He’d thought the text messages were all he’d sent.

_Prompto. Call me when you get this. Just… I don’t care what’s going on between us right now, I just need to know you’re okay._

There’s something in the way that Noct says ‘okay’. There’s a break in his voice just at the ‘ay’, and the call ends abruptly afterwards.

_I just need to know you’re okay._

Prompto bites his lip and presses the heel of his hand to his eye.

“I’m okay,” he says, and cries.

 

Three weeks later, Prompto races down the escalator at the subway station. He can see the train pulling in to the platform, and while he could wait the few minutes for the next one, he’s feeling too energised to bother with that.

He can hear Noct heavy-footing it down the escalator behind him and picks up his pace. It’d suck to let him win the race now. He jumps the last two steps of the escalator just as the train opens its doors. Sidestepping the three or four people who get off the train – _sorry sorry sorry!_ – he leaps onto the subway carriage.

Panting heavily and beaming, he gives himself permission for a fist pump, before hearing the beeps to alert travellers to the doors closing. He turns and extends an arm out of the doors even before he sees Noct running more sedately down the platform.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” Prompto goads, and Noct slaps his hand away as he reaches it. When he realises the doors are shutting he changes his mind, grabbing hold and edging inside just before the doors close on his shoulders.

They both take a second to get their breath back, taking a hand rail each.

“Don’t you know there’s no running on subway platforms?” Noct says when he’s massaged the stitch in his side.

“Seriously? All that long, flat space and you can’t run on it? Aw, man.” Prompto pokes his tongue out.

“You have to stop taking those supplements. You keep outrunning me.”

“You’re just jealous, dude.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

It’s good to be able to fill his lungs to the max again. Prompto hadn’t realised he wasn’t doing it until the supplements helped him regain the energy to. He looks over Noct’s head at the advertising posters, and sees one beside the door that he’s never seen before.

The centre of the design is a backpack in primary colours, and on either side there are two people. One person is wearing the backpack with an oblivious look, and the person on the other side is holding their face. The text beneath it says: _Please take backpacks off on crowded trains._

Prompto grins at Noct, and nods towards the poster. “That you?”

Noct turns to look over his shoulder at it. “Nah. Guess some idiot got his face bashed in or something.” But when he turns back to Prompto his grin isn’t inscrutable at all. Prompto laughs, nods knowingly, and reaches for a fist bump. He knows he’ll get it back, and he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I talk about my writing process over on my [tumblr](https://opheliacrow.tumblr.com/). Feel free to come and ask me any questions :)
> 
> Edit: The vast majority of nosebleeds don't need to be treated in a hospital setting, or by paramedics. Prompto has complicating factors that make his case unusual. If you have a nosebleed, try [home treatment](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/nosebleed/) first unless you too have complicating factors.


End file.
